


The Measurement of our Unknowing

by xtinethepirate



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Families of Choice, First Kiss, Growing Up, Implied Underage, M/M, Minor Character Death, Princess Bride References, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:32:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xtinethepirate/pseuds/xtinethepirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of interludes in the lives of Sherlock and John, from 1984 to 2011. Or, how A Study in Pink would have gone differently if Sherlock had any pop culture knowledge. </p><p>Written for Ellie_hell's Sherlockmas 2012 prompt "Christmas in an AU where Sherlock and John met as children and spent most of their lives together."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Measurement of our Unknowing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellie_hell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellie_hell/gifts).



"After all, nothing happens by chance, because chance is not really an agent but rather a mathematical proposition about probability, such as weather predictions and gambling odds. In this sense, chance, coincidence, or randomness is the measurement of our unknowing, the limit of our finite perspectives, the general label provided to cover up the gaps." Rizza, Michael James. "The Dislocation of Agency in Don DeLillo's Libra." Critique: Studies in Contemporary Fiction 49. 2 (2008 Winter): 171-184.

 

**2010**

There were Christmas lights festooning the morgue.

"I thought it might be... you know, a bit festive?" Molly stammered from behind him. Sherlock hadn't asked (didn't care), but now that an explanation had been offered, he regarded the effect of the tiny splashes of colour against the drab beige walls and the stainless steel fixtures. Despite Molly's intentions, it hadn't worked. The cheery points of light looked garish on the table, ghastly in their red and green painted splotches on the dead body. _Male. Elderly. No visible signs of trauma—good: Molly had been paying attention._ "How fresh?"

"Just in." Excellent. "Sixty-seven, natural causes." Obvious. "He used to work here. I knew him; he was nice." Irrelevant. Only Molly would consider niceness a barometer of a person's usefulness.

He smiled quickly, regardless, and shrugged out of his coat. "We'll start with the riding crop."

 

*

 

Sherlock heard Mike Stamford's voice down the hall as he left the morgue. Same boring recitation of details; clearly, he was showing someone new around. If he caught Sherlock, he would present him exactly as he did any of the hospital's other fixtures—gent's loo is down the hall on the left, mind the door at the end, it sticks a bit; best coffee in the building is in the WRVS cafe or, if one happened to be in their good graces, at the nurse's station in Ward 5b; the morgue has a madman in it who takes dead bodies home, don't mind him. It was always amusing to deduce the newest hires and foundation doctors, but being trotted out as a quirk of Bart's, like faulty wiring or a ghost in the attic, grated on him. Sherlock didn't have the patience to exchange mindless conversational trivialities with everyone; Molly was trying enough, and at least she was marginally competent and of use for procuring corpses. He flipped the collar of his coat up around his face and tried to duck down the hallway quickly.

"Oi! Sherlock!" Mike called. Then, conspiratorially, "You'll love this, mate. Won't believe your ears when he does his trick."

Bugger. The doctor likely didn't even have so much as an interesting affair or secret, deviant sexual kink for him to reveal. People were utterly predictable more often than not. 

"Sherlock! Hold on a mo, want you to meet someone."

He could keep walking, of course, but... better to get it done with. Bracing himself, Sherlock plastered on a broad, fake smile, and turned to see who Mike wanted to inflict on him this time. 

_Oh._

 

**1984**

The ball hit Sherlock's arm and bounced off, rolling to a stop a few feet away. Sherlock ignored it, and proceeded also to ignore the boy calling to him to toss it back over. He hunkered down closer to the ground, frowning through his magnifying glass in concentration. He only had a few more hours at most; even before Father came home, either Mummy or Mycroft would notice that the magnifying glass was missing from his desk. Sherlock _knew_ he wasn't meant to take it, but it was very important for a scientist to observe things clearly, and he could see better with it. Sherlock shuffled back a few steps to where he'd scratched the next line in the dirt (he'd also borrowed the tape measure, though he'd be in less trouble for that if it were found missing) and peered closely at the grass.

"Hey! Didn't you hear me?" 

There were footsteps, and Sherlock looked up quickly, rising up a bit in case he needed to run. The boy was a bit older, but not as big as Mycroft. Tan, blonde, possibly a bully; Sherlock couldn't tell yet. Better to be careful, though. In Sherlock's experience, people fell into only two categories: family, and bullies (not the two never overlapped). He didn't reply; he had the skinned palms and torn trousers from previous attempts to engage with his peers. He knew better. 

The boy put his foot on the ball and rolled it back and forth. Though Sherlock didn't look up, he was paying attention. He always did. "Don't you want to play?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Boring. 

"Are you watching the ants?"

That wasn't how this usually went. The first offer to play always turned into shoving and insults if he said no; yelling if he didn't say anything. No one ever just tried to talk. Sherlock looked up again, past the boy with blonde hair and a strange accent, wanting to see if he was being teased, if the boy had friends who would come and scuff out Sherlock's lines, tear up his notes, or stomp on the anthill. 

They were alone. 

Cautiously, Sherlock held up the tape measure he'd taken. "I wanted to see how far they go from their hill. Nanny thinks if they're not in the garden they won't get into the house, but I told her that they could probably go lots further, and Father's encyclopedia says they'll go even 200 metres when they're foraging." He had refrained from bringing the encyclopedia outside with him, but just barely. Sherlock rocked back on his heels, waiting to be laughed at. He was still half-braced to run if he had to, and if the boy started laughing, he would. Laughter always led to being pushed or hit. He didn't _like_ running, and father would tell him to stick up for himself, but Sherlock suspected that was because father was big and had lots of money. Sherlock was fast, instead.

The other boy didn't look bored, however; and, after a moment, Sherlock continued, somewhat encouraged. "They use scent trails to navigate. They're in the order," he paused, carefully pronouncing the word, "Hy-men-op-tera, which has lots of different insects, like bees and wasps too, but Nanny wouldn't let me do any experiments with bee hives." 

The boy dropped down onto the ground next to Sherlock, though he was careful not to mess up the lines Sherlock had made in the dirt. "Can I see?" He took the magnifying glass carefully, and bent so close to the ground that his nose almost smudged against it, watching the ants. Suddenly, he sat back and fished in his pocket. 

"I've got some biscuits," he offered, holding out a very battered package. "We could use these, and see if they go further away to find them."

Sherlock hadn't thought about doing that—introducing external variables, it would probably say in Mycroft's textbook—and he stared wide-eyed at the biscuits. It wouldn't be good for the control group, which he should establish first, but control groups were boring anyway. He jumped to his feet and dusted off the knees of his trousers hurriedly. "I'll get some fruit from the kitchen and we can see what they find first!" He started to turn away, then stopped, sticking out his hand like Father and Mycroft always did when they met someone new. "My name's Sherlock. Nice to meet you." For once, he wasn't fibbing. 

The boy pushed himself up. "I'm John." His knees were grass stained and there was dirt under his nails when he shook Sherlock's hand. Nanny would be furious if Sherlock came home in such a state. 

He couldn't _wait_.

 

**1998**

The problem was that he got bored. Even his classes couldn't provide enough stimulation for his mind: after the third time he corrected the professor, he was no longer called on in lectures, and the laboratory experiments they were given were dull. If he attempted his own experiments, he could be barred from the lab entirely—he wasn't sure if that would be a blessing or not. 

If John wasn't working, it would be easier, Sherlock thought. Unfortunately, John needed money for school and rent, and he inexplicably refused to let Sherlock pay for either. John was distracting, engaging, could turn down the volume on the hundreds of thousands of petty mundanities that made up the world, so they wouldn't batter Sherlock's mind and clog the gears with their grit. No amount of money could begin to repay John for that service, but John refused to listen to reason and see things Sherlock's way. Frustrating.

Sherlock knew, from extensive observation of his peers, that alcohol could do wonders for muting the mind. Though being perpetually inebriated to ensure his brain would function at less-than-optimal capacity would not be _ideal_ by any stretch, it would solve many of his problems. Or, rather, it would do were it not for the history of alcoholism in John's family. He had avoided alcohol since they had moved in together (no hardship; he never much cared for it regardless).  
Alcohol, however, was not the only substance on offer.

 

**2003**

The flat on Montague Street was small—smaller even than the place he'd had in uni—and squalid. Sherlock could see at a glance that there were at least two different kinds of vermin colonizing the building (three, if one counted the clear signs of drug addicts on the second and fourth floors, but it wasn't as though Sherlock could much complain about that). Regardless, it was what he could afford: more to the point, it was what he could afford _without Mycroft_ and all the strings that came attached to the rather depleted inheritance of Sherlock's that he controlled. 

Nowhere in London was entirely free from Mycroft's meddling influence, however. A week after he moved his few belongings into the flat, even without divulging his new address to anyone, Sherlock received a letter from John. Christmas card, judging by the inflexibility of the envelope; rather lengthy letter included, judging by the weight. He threw it out without opening it. 

 

**2002**

"We need to talk about something."

Sherlock reluctantly emerged from the dreamy haze of music and chemicals in which he had wrapped himself, and blinked up at John. "That sounds serious."

"It is, yeah."

 

**1994**

Sherlock noticed him right away. Unsurprising, he noticed everything, whether it was to his benefit or not. What he hadn't expected was to be noticed in turn. 

Inaccurate. Sherlock despised fabrications, even those—especially those—that were confined to his own mind. He _had_ expected to be noticed, the way that any skinny bloke two years younger than the rest of his classmates, and with an IQ higher than their maximum daily output expected to be noticed: with jeers of _freak_ tossed his way with effortless disdain, perhaps an "unexpected" encounter on his walk home from school. Split skin and the tang of blood in his mouth from John's knuckles colliding with his cheekbone.

John was at home among his classmates, moving among them with a wide grin and easy laugh as if he, and not Sherlock, had spent all his life with them. As if he wasn't there on scholarship, marked as other by his second-hand jumper and worn trousers. But he wasn't the outsider here; Sherlock was. 

Sherlock occasionally fantasized about handing out relevant pages from the _OED_ to his most vocal tormenters, if for nothing else than to make his days somewhat less predictable. Freak. Tosser. Poof. The insults were repetitive, unimaginative, but never effective—no, never _that_ : he wouldn't permit it. Not even if they came from John.

Sherlock braced for the inevitable, when he saw John approaching him. It would be the perfect initiation, really: a solid kick to Sherlock's solar plexus, a bloodied nose, or a scattering of his careful notes across the ground, and John would be welcomed entirely into their world. 

"Hullo," John said, flopping down onto the grass next to Sherlock. "Remember me?"

His smile was wide and bright, and Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth try to twitch in response. _Hypothesis: Visual trigger of mirror neurons. Data: Unscientific. Anecdotal evidence predicated on single incident. Nevertheless, it seemed to support of Gallese et al.'s extrapolation of such a system in human brains from their observation of neuron activity in macaque monkeys (inferior frontal gyrus, region F5). Conclusion: nothing to do with John._

Sherlock thought fleetingly of the linen cupboard, and Mycroft's sleeve against his face. Given the intervening years, that incident was not sufficient to disprove his conclusion, but nor could he entirely discount the data. Additional trials needed. 

"Scotland apparently did nothing to improve your intelligence," he said, and smiled when John started to laugh.

 

**2008**

"You look like you're about to fall over."

Sherlock didn't look up from studying the CCTV stills. There had to be some connection between the murdered pawnbroker with the distinctive hair and the recent spate of robberies around his shop's location, but nothing satisfactory had, as yet, presented itself. 

"When was the last time you had something to eat?"

For a moment, it wasn't Lestrade speaking to him. If Sherlock closed his eyes, he could feel sunlight and smell curry, instead of fluorescent lights and stale cigarette smoke. 

_"Isn't it your job to feed me up?"_

_"Funny, I thought I was supposed to be your boyfriend, rather than your cook."_

_"Thank Christ for that, your culinary skills being what they are. Fortunately, you're exceedingly skilled with your c—"_

_Laughter. "Don't. Stop right there, unless you want to wear this Saag gosht."_

_A pause, the threat being considered and evaluated for seriousness. "With your carry-out-fetching abilities?"_

_"Too bloody right."_

The memory flickered before his eyes like a dying candle. Sherlock blinked, and found his hands clenched on the edge of the table. He straightened his fingers slowly, deliberately fanning them across the images. 

Lestrade was watching him, with that particular furrow he got when he was concerned—it usually appeared when talking about his wife or daughter; Sherlock wondered if he should be flattered. "Not eating. Working," he answered tersely, and immediately deleted any further protests as dull. 

 

**1994**

Though they had spent most of their afternoons there when they were younger, Sherlock's parents never being home and John's having an overabundance of affection to share, it was almost six months after the Watsons had moved back to England before John invites him home after school. 

It was immediately apparent why—things had changed at the Watson house. Mrs. Watson (whom Sherlock remembered from his youth in a rather amorphous fashion—a disconnected collection of smiles, cookies, and a sweet, perfume-y smell when she hugged him) was thinner, quieter. She still smiled at him, but it was a strained expression, coupled with a glance toward the living room and an admonishment for the two of them to not make too much of a racket. Sherlock noticed the new lines on her forehead and around her eyes, more than what age would account for; worse, when she embraced him, he saw the pale bruises like smudges of ink on her skin, peeking out from the edges of her sleeves. 

John always wore long sleeves, Sherlock realized. It didn't necessarily mean anything; it was winter, and their uniform made it a requirement rather than a choice. But he never pushed them up out of the way, either, like so many of their classmates did. Moreover, the fact that Sherlock had not observed anything did not mean there was nothing for him to have observed—he was, regrettably, only human; humans were fallible; he would always miss _something_.

"How long?" Sherlock asked, as he followed John into his room. _How long has he been drinking? How long as he been abusive? How long were you going to hide this from me?_

"Don't—" John's dropped his bag unceremoniously on the floor and collapses on his bed, lying back to glare at the ceiling. "Don't deduce me right now, Sherlock."

On Sherlock's detailed scale of responses to his deductions (ranging from complete indifference to having his eye blackened), it was somewhere below the median ("piss off"), but was nevertheless a far more negative response than usual from John. Sherlock took the warning to tread carefully, and stood without speaking in the middle of the room. There was a peculiar leaden sensation in his chest as he watched John clench his jaw and press the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. 

"It's not—look, it's fine, all right? It's nothing like—like what I know you're thinking. So leave it alone."

When he was six, he would not have hesitated to hug his friend who was upset—he would have hesitated to hug anyone else, naturally, but not John. But at some indeterminate point in the intervening years, they had passed the moment where social convention would make hugging his best mate—male, _in his bedroom_ —something indecent. Sherlock wondered where, exactly, that line had been drawn, and by whom. Pity he couldn't blame it on Mycroft.

Sod convention, anyhow. Convention was boring.

Sherlock dropped his school bag on the floor next to John's and sat on the edge of the bed, poking John's side until he wiggled over enough to give Sherlock room to lie down as well. "You know, Mr. Schaker is having it off with Mrs. Janes?" he asked conversationally, crossing one arm behind his head. "If the way his shirt has been ironed the past few weeks is anything to go by. I won't even go into the colour of her lipstick."

John didn't laugh _(emotional upset more serious than Sherlock had initially determined)_ , but he did relax fractionally. Sherlock propped himself up on one arm and pushed at John's elbow, trying to determine if there was a hint of a smile hidden behind his hands. "This is the point where you're supposed to interject with ‘brilliant!' or ‘amazing!' or anything else that makes you sound like a supporting character in those second-rate detective novels you enjoy," he reminded John, helpfully. 

He got a pillow in his face for his troubles.

"I'll show you who's second-rate, you—you tosser," John laughed, hitting Sherlock again. Sherlock twisted away, blocking the successive blows with one arm while he tried to gain control of the pillow with the other. While he had the greater reach, John easily had half a stone on him, as well as a history of playing rugby to his advantage: when Sherlock tried to make a tactical retreat, John pinned his legs with his own and tossed the pillow aside to grab his wrists and force them against the mattress— And for all that Sherlock claimed to have observed of human interaction, the hormonal fumbles of his peers that he so derided even as he was deliberately excluded from them; for all his supposed superior intelligence, Sherlock did not truly process that they were no longer playfully wrestling until John's mouth was on his, clumsy but warm. 

_Oh._

Sherlock hooked one leg over the back of John's, wanting to bring him closer without trying to pull his arms free from John's grip. John shifted, teeth clicking against Sherlock's as he tried to keep his balance properly, and his knee pressed uncomfortably into Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock hissed and pulled back. 

"Sorry," John whispered, then laughed, sudden and bright. "Just—there," He squirmed down into a more comfortable position, until their hips aligned properly, _ah—!_ , and leaned in again. This time, his tongue pressed into Sherlock's mouth, artless and demanding, licking everywhere _(median sulcus, incisive papilla, palatine raphe)_ as though he wanted to learn Sherlock's thoughts by taste alone. 

"Not a—not a rugby pitch," Sherlock gasped out between kisses, which made John chuckle and relent. His grip loosened enough that Sherlock could work one hand free, and he splayed it over the back of John's neck, fingering the ridges of his cervical vertebrae. John's respiration had increased, and his core temperature was elevated, judging by how warm his body on Sherlock's was. He was hard, too; Sherlock could feel the line of his prick against his thigh with every shift and press of their bodies together. The tips of Sherlock's fingers tingled with the desire to _touch_.

"Sherlock? Are you staying for supper?" John's mum called from downstairs. 

Immediately, John wrenched himself away as though he had been scalded, surging to his feet and lunging across the room to press one hand flat against the door as though to hold it closed. After a tense moment, he opened it a crack, revealing a sliver of the empty hallway beyond. "He can't tonight, mum," he called back. He did not look at Sherlock.

Awkwardness fell heavily over them, a silence so thick it was a physical pressure. Sherlock breathed in deeply, feeling the weight of it on his lungs. 

"She'd just be throwing something together anyway," John muttered, rubbing at the nape of his neck. Sherlock wondered if John could still feel the pressure of his hand there. "I'm saving your delicate gastronomical sensibilities from a rude shock, promise."

Lying on John's rumpled bedclothes, still uncomfortably aroused, Sherlock wondered what it was about the human brain that let hormones override common sense, no matter how disciplined one thought one was. It must be addictive, the chemical rush of affection and arousal too enticing to be ignored. _But biochemistry was simply chemistry at its root, after all: it could be replicated artificially. If it could be replicated, it could be managed, and thereby controlled—_ he needed to stop thinking about this. Now. 

Sherlock sat up. He made a token effort to straighten his shirt, but didn't bother with his hair. It was a lost cause by now, not that it made much of a difference. John still would not look at him. The carpet must have been _fascinating_ , though even Sherlock couldn't see any evidence there worth analyzing. He stood and picked up his bag. 

"Sherlock—" John began, apparently spurred into speech by Sherlock's movement. He glanced at the door _(afraid of being overheard)_ and then back at the floor again, licking his _(still kiss-reddened)_ lips. 

"It's fine, John," Sherlock interjected, because even though this was his first kiss, he knew how this script went: he could read his lines in the knotted tension of John's shoulders, the anxious glances at the door and, by extension, to his family beyond. "I won't tell anyone."

And he wouldn't. John was well-liked, even popular, despite his financial circumstances and being Sherlock's friend. Sherlock wasn't so selfish as to jeopardize that, especially not where John's father was an obviously volatile factor. 

John looked at him finally, with a _(relieved? guilty?)_ smile. "Good, that's—great, yeah." He laughed, drumming his fingers against his thigh. "I mean, we don't need any rumours that we're poofs going around, right?"

Sherlock's smile was thin in response. "I don't much care, as it would be a statement of fact in my case, however inelegantly phrased," he remarked blandly, hefting his bag higher on his shoulder, "but I take your point."

It was his turn to avoid John's eyes as he made his exit, jogging down the stairs without responding to John's rushed, even anxious— _ridiculous, he was projecting now_ —call of "See you at school tomorrow?"

As an objective fact he would, of course, see John. Sherlock knew, however, that everything would change now: John had a heavy enough burden of being the only son in a family situation where one misstep would be a violent catalyst. He couldn't risk being friendly with Sherlock, not given the potential for his father to view homosexuality as somehow transitive. John had so little affection at home now, Sherlock saw; he wouldn't forgo what little he had, nor the popularity he had at school that took its place. Sherlock understood that; he did. 

The house was empty when he made it home, but that was no surprise—it usually was, ever since Mycroft moved to London. Sherlock went straight to his room and closed the door carefully behind him. It was unfortunate that understanding did not mitigate emotional response. He sat on the edge of the bed with his hands pressed together and breathed, and breathed, and breathed, until his eyes no longer stung. 

 

**2003**

_....the worst bits aren't even the fighting, though, but the boredom. Christ, you'd have gone mad already. I sometimes wonder if I have. It's not that I want a firefight, or an IED the next time I'm on patrol, but the long days of nothing but waiting are worse. It's stupid, right? Think you must have rubbed off on me—no dirty comments, please...._

He'd made the mistake of opening one of John's letters, two months after moving to Montague Street. The paper was creased and worn at the edges, and John's pen bled ink into the tiny creases, creating a webbed map of black against the white surface, and blurring the letters.

_....The other blokes here talk about their wives and girlfriends back home—a few Brits and Canadians talk about their boyfriends, but of course the Yanks can't. I'm sure there's at least one lieutenant, and maybe a captain, who would have stories to share, but the other part of "Don't Tell" is "Don't Ask," so I haven't. I talk about you, though. No one believes me about the pig livers—almost makes me wish I'd taken a picture before making you clean it up. Never thought I'd miss exploded animal bits in the microwave, but...._

Sherlock told himself, at least, that it was the ink that was blurred, not his vision.

_....have some leave time soon enough, but it would be nice to know I have a home to come back to. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Sherlock...._

He crumpled the letter into a ball without finishing it, and hurled it toward the bin. He managed to leave it there all night, as he took out his lonli&emdash _no, redact,_ , his _anger_ on his violin, making it screech and scream everything he wouldn't let himself voice or put on paper. Finally, he collapsed onto his lumpy couch in exhaustion.

The next morning, he retrieved the letter and smoothed out the new creases he'd made by crushing it. He didn't read it again, but he couldn't let it go either. Instead, he folded it back into its envelope and put it in a box under his bed. Subsequent letters went into the same box, unopened. Though he had no desire to see their contents, Afghanistan was still splashed across the papers daily, and the letters were the only reassurance he had. Cold comfort though they were, Sherlock feared the day they would stop coming.

 

**2006**

There was a dead body in the snow.

Sherlock stared at it for a moment, taking a long drag on his cigarette. The acrid burn of smoke in his lungs was usually satiating, but it did fuck-all when he was crashing. Homeostasis, Sherlock felt, was significantly overrated. It didn't help that there were tinny Christmas carols playing at a nearby pub, the volume waxing and waning as the door opened and shut. His head hurt abominably—sobriety and the festive season did not easily mix.

He finished the fag and crushed the end underfoot before stepping closer. The alley reeked of stale piss and worse, but at least it was somewhat away from the garish lights of the street. Sherlock pulled his rather threadbare coat more tightly around himself and walked slowly around the body. With the cocaine receding from his system, he needed something to engage his mind, and this was more promising than anything he'd find iin his slum of a flat.

_Female, approximately 30-35 years of age. Face partially obscured by body's placement, making more exact range impossible. Hair clearly dyed, recently: attempt to appear younger, age more likely 33-35. Closer examination suggested of Botox around eyes, forehead. Obsession with looks, likely externally imposed given her relatively young age. Possibly due to her job?_

His mind felt slow, rusted with disuse, but the deductions started to come more smoothly as his brain warmed to the puzzle, details slotting neatly into place.

_No—stupid, amateur assumption. Her clothing told a different story entirely: expensive heeled boots, designer skirt. Both slightly too small for her; moreover, the skirt was in a particularly unflattering colour. Uncomfortable, worn anyway: emotional investment. Job with high visual component (government, media, fashion) would prioritize flattering appearance. Conclusion: boyfriend. Rich, likely older, preferred women in a younger age bracket. Boots and clothing a gift; hair dye and Botox done in hopes of maintaining his interest, as she had passed his optimal age range. Hair style suggested a date, length of skirt in this weather suggested some desperation to please._

_Apparently, she had failed._

He crouched down to take a closer look, to make sure there was nothing he had missed. 

"Stand up, and turn around slowly," a curt voice from behind him demanded. Sherlock cursed his momentary inattention. Having something truly interesting for a change had given him tunnel vision, enough to forget the cold, his exhaustion, the persistent and disquieting sensation that his skin s attempting to crawl off his bones—perhaps to find someone who would treat it better. 

"Miss? Are you all right?"

"She's dead," Sherlock noted then, anticipating the follow-up, continued, "And no, I didn't kill her. Her boyfriend did." As anyone with eyes could clearly see.

"Yeah? You just happened to be in the area, witnessed the crime—the sole witness, I see—watched him leave the area, and thought you'd hang about for a lark?"

"The evidence was obvious enough." The tedium of this conversation was reason enough to wish he'd simply kept walking. Worse was how unbearably disapproving Mycroft would be if Sherlock was arrested again, all but radiating silent remonstrations of _I knew you couldn't be trusted to manage yourself_ and _what would Mummy think_ and, worst of all, _if John were here...._.

Mycroft had always approved of John. It had been, simultaneously, the one good quality his brother possessed and the one failing of John's. 

The policeman spoke on his radio for a moment, and then stepped up behind Sherlock. He didn't resist as his hands were pulled behind his back and cuffed. The man was gentle enough, which was good; he also clearly was not open to taking a bribe, which wasn't. 

"Obvious, eh? How about you enlighten me, then."

The tone was sarcastic, but it had been four years since Sherlock's observations were anything but ignored at best (at worst, they led to curses, broken noses, and split lips). _Brilliant_ , Sherlock thought, and his chest felt tight.

"Her appearance in conjunction with the weather indicates she was meeting someone. She wouldn't wear a hat, not with that much care put into her hairstyle, and the skirt is also unlikely. Would she disregard the temperature to this extent if she were meeting a platonic friend? Meeting someone in whom she had a romantic interest, then, someone she wanted to impress with her looks. The skirt and boots are more expensive than her coat—far more expensive. I haven't observed her shirt, but I have no doubt you'll find it is similarly expensive, likely designer. They're expensive, but don't suit her: she wouldn't spend that much on herself, as her coat demonstrates, and the lines show they're too new to have been inherited from a relative. Gifts, then. Possibly family, but what family member would purchase a £1500skirt with a slit that high? Only a family that you ought to investigate, Detective Sergeant. No, it was her romantic partner. No wedding ring—she's not married. Statistically likely that she's straight, so: boyfriend."

"And he's the one you say killed her?" The officer still sounded dubious, but he was listening. Unusual.

"It was an inaccurate turn of phrase," Sherlock admitted. "Indirectly, he certainly is culpable. Look at her hands, her face. Her skin is blue. Severe hypothermia. But she removed her gloves—you can see them sticking out of her pocket, there—and her coat is open. She felt warm, even as she was dying of cold. It isn't terribly uncommon—anywhere between 20 and 50% of hypothermia cases present with paradoxical undressing: the statistics are somewhat uncertain as such cases can be misinterpreted as assault, for obvious reasons. If, however, you noted her footprints before you trampled all over them, you will have seen she was alone. It's snowed since then—hers are partly obscured, ours are fresh. You may also have observed, though to be frank I highly doubt that you did, how her footprints weave back and forth. That salient detail, in conjunction with the pub playing the infernal Christmas music on the corner, lend even more credence to hypothermia: it was exacerbated by the vasodilation caused by alcohol consumption. 

"She's drunk and alone two days before Christmas, wearing clothes that don't suit her and can't be comfortable; more importantly, she's removed one earring and a rather large ring from her middle finger, both expensive pieces that she didn't care about losing. Logical inference: an aging woman sets out to meet her wealthy and clearly youth-obsessed boyfriend. She undoubtedly found him with someone else—Botox and hair dye point to his dissatisfaction with her appearance and her last-ditch attempts to hold his attention—drowned her sorrows at a nearby pub, and picked the wrong place to sleep it off." Sherlock breathed in deeply, feeling the cold air crystallize in his lungs. The solution was an ephemeral high; now that it was solved, he was crashing all over again. He sighed. "As I said, obvious."

It was surprising enough that the officer didn't punch him. No one would have questioned it, not with a dead body and a junkie suspect. It was more surprising that when he was taken to the police station, it was only for a few hours, and he was permitted to sit in the sergeant's office for the duration while his observations were confirmed. The man even insisted on giving him a cup of tea and a biscuit. Sherlock refrained from commenting on his obviously unhappy marriage, or from pointing out that their attempts to have children would not alleviate the strain between them, as his way of returning the favour. 

Most surprising of all was that, before letting him leave, the officer scrawled his name and phone number on a scrap of paper and gave it to Sherlock.

"If that wasn't a one-off trick, and you can get yourself clean," Detective Sergeant Lestrade told him, "Give me a call."

As Christmas presents went, it was one of the better ones Sherlock had ever received. 

 

**1996**

The entire apartment was, Sherlock thought cynically, almost as big as the bedroom he'd had at home. Almost. It didn't help that there were boxes covering almost every inch of the floor, in addition to being piled on the tiny coffee table and their threadbare couch: movies (John's), chemistry equipment and chemicals (Sherlock's), and dozens of books (paperback science fiction and other mindless dreck all John's; hardcover diagnostic manuals, dictionaries for various languages, and the etiquette manual John had bought him once, Sherlock's books).

He wouldn't complain about the lack of space, however; not when it was theirs. After two years of the occasional evening and weekend while John worked to save up money for uni, and Sherlock bounced from one major to the next (and was evicted from three separate residences), he would have quite happily lived in a shoebox. 

Sherlock carefully set down his boxes of Apidae and Vespoidea specimens on top of John's _Dr. Who_ collection, and picked his way over to the window. It had been next to the bed, Sherlock thought, though there was currently no evidence to substantiate that belief, as the mattress had vanished beneath piles of clothing (mostly Sherlock's—John seemed to get by on four pairs of jeans and a half-dozen jumpers in various shades of hideous). He leaned against the window and looked out. 

Downstairs, John was hugging his mum goodbye, as if this was his first time away from home instead of just his first flat with his boyfriend. She looked well, no longer trying to hide bruises under long sleeves and concealer now that she and Mr. Watson were separated, and she had greeted Sherlock with a warm hug that smelled like the perfume he remembered her wearing when he'd been six. Because she'd been so glad to see him, he had refrained from asking how long it had been since Harriet had relapsed _(Clear signs that she hadn't been sleeping well, due to worry. John was well, so the logical cause was Harry, and Harry had one notable problem)._ John hadn't said anything, but his relationship with Harry was even more fraught than Sherlock's with Mycroft.

Mycroft. He had threatened to come today, when it was obvious that Mummy wouldn't make it. Sherlock had been forced to threaten him with noxious chemicals and creative dismemberment if he had tried.

Sherlock shook off his pleasant revenge fantasies at the sound of footsteps on the stairs _(slower than usual; John was carrying something heavy in the final box. Likely dishes or Sherlock's concrete samples)._ He turned away from the window as John wrestled the door open and staggered over to the kitchen _(dishes it was)_ to set the box down. He wiped his sleeve across his forehead and turned to grin hugely at Sherlock. "Hi."

His smile was infectious, and Sherlock felt his lips tug up at the corners in response. "We've spent the entire morning trying to pack our belongings into this sardine tin," he says, pushing himself off the window and picking his way carefully across the floor, "I hardly think a greeting is necessary at this point."

Tea, on the other hand, _was_ , but their kettle seemed to have vanished along with the mattress. John, apparently entirely in sync with Sherlock's tea needs, turned and started to rummage through boxes labelled 'kitchen,' muttering to himself. "Where'd I put the bloody—?" He rubbed the back of his neck, then turned to Sherlock with a look of exasperation. "Am I going to find the kettle in a box labelled 'books,' or 'science experiments,' or 'Do not look inside, John Watson, if you want to continue loving me, despite my being a colossal berk'?"

"That would be a highly inefficient labeling system," Sherlock replied, grinning. "Though I can't entirely discount the possibility that I did move the kettle and teapot, I'm certain it would have been for a perfectly logical reason."

"That's a comfort." John closed the box he'd been digging in, and turned to rest his hands on Sherlock's hips and pull him closer. "Ah well, this will warm us enough instead." He stretched up on his toes for a kiss. 

John kissed with singular focus, backing Sherlock up against the counter and pressing into his space. His hands slid over Sherlock's sides, rucking up his shirt and sliding underneath. Sherlock grinned against his mouth, enjoying this rather possessive side to John. Apparently, the prospect of having their own space, where no one could walk in and interrupt, made him more amorous than usual. "John," he managed to interject, as John moved his mouth to Sherlock's neck as though determined to mark every inch of it, "I—ah—recognize that your observational skills are sub-par, but surely even you noticed that our bed has vanished."

John murmured something against his neck that was either meant to be an insult or an assent: it was hard to tell as he slid his hands down to squeeze Sherlock's arse and pull him closer. He was aroused, Sherlock could feel through his trousers and John's jeans, and Sherlock himself was not entirely unaffected. "John—" he said again, more groan than protest. "I'm not shagging you on top of my clothes—they're worth more than you are." He felt rather than heard the answering huff of laughter against his throat, before John _rolled_ his hips in a rather elegant counterpoint to Sherlock's argument. For a moment, all the air fled the room.

"We could stop," John said mock-seriously, pulling back. Sherlock was forced to grip the counter hard to keep his knees from buckling. "Get some unpacking done. I could read up on my anatomy texts, you know. Important stuff."

"Are you honestly angling for a practical anatomy exam joke, John?" Sherlock tilted his head back further as John nosed along the line of his throat. "That's abysmal even by your standards of humour."

"Shut it," John replied amiably, and yanked Sherlock away from the counter. 

The floor was the only clear space large enough for them to both lie down, and even then Sherlock banged his elbow against his microscope and John knocked over a stack of paperbacks with his foot as they scrambled to undress. Sherlock hissed into John's mouth and wrapped one leg around John's hips, wanting the push and drag of John's erection aligned with his, perfect friction and pressure. "Yeah, Christ, there," John groaned against his mouth as Sherlock arched into him. He wanted more, though, and he pushed himself up on his elbows, almost banging their foreheads together. 

"I don't suppose you had any lubricant concealed in your jeans?" he asked, grabbing them from the pile of discarded clothing and rummaging through the pockets. "You're opportunistic enough to carry a condom, but no... bloody... lubricant?" he tossed them aside again.

John swore and sat up, which wasn't at all what Sherlock had in mind—it left him too cold, for one. "Do you remember where we packed it?"

"Honestly, John, it isn't as though we have a box labelled 'sex supplies'," Sherlock complained, tugging him back down. 

John's voice was muffled against Sherlock's lips. "Even if we did, God only knows what I'd find in there. Your sock index, most likely. All right," he said, pinching the curve of Sherlock's arse, "turn over."

Sherlock ignored the instruction: he was quite enjoying kissing John. John, however, always had been stronger, and Sherlock quickly found himself expertly flipped onto his stomach. Before he could twist away or roll back over, John was on top of him again, pinning his legs and dragging his mouth down the curve of Sherlock's spine. Lumbar curve, each vertebra marked with a kiss; a warm tongue tracing the sacral dimple, as strong hands spread his buttocks; then oh, _oh—!_

Once John got what he wanted, he could be excruciatingly patient and thorough. By the time John finally— _dear God, yes, finally_ —penetrated him, Sherlock was intimately familiar with every knot and whorl in the wood floor, and had quite vocally introduced them both to all their neighbours. Plastered against his back, John, the bastard, couldn't stop giggling.

 

**1985**

"Sherlock."

Mycroft did not sound pleased. Sherlock knew exactly what his face would look like, too, since it was the pinched expression he always had when he had to 'mind his infantile brother,' which is what he'd said after Sherlock had scared off his science tutor by boiling the dead mouse he'd found in the garden in one of their teapots. He'd done his research, and that was the best way to get the skeleton out, and it wasn't _his_ fault that cook had said he couldn't use one of the pots, or that their tutor had started to pour the resulting liquid into her teacup before he could warn her (he was going to warn her, Sherlock had insisted, definitely before she took a sip of it at least. Maybe). It didn't even matter that she'd quit, since Sherlock knew she fancied one of the garners and not Mycroft, and Mummy could always hire someone else, but no one would listen.

It wasn't accurate anyway, calling him 'infantile.' Sherlock had looked it up. From the Latin _infantalis,_ of or pertaining to babies or very young children. Which Sherlock wasn't; he was 7 now. Mycroft told him not to be so literal, and Sherlock told him that using inaccurate insults was lazy. 

"Sherlock, Mummy and Father are ready to go, and their plane is not going to wait simply because you've decided to be petulant."

Sherlock duly added the word to his list of Things Grownups Called Him, with the mental note to look it up later. It bothered adults when Sherlock what they meant, or when he could tell them how they had used a term incorrectly. Even the promise of a new word couldn't make him come out, though; he wasn't going to come out again, not ever. He curled up tighter under the folded blanket, nestled in the corner of the linen cupboard.

"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was close. Sherlock held his breath. "Sherlock, come out. I know that you're in there." He knocked on the door of the cupboard for emphasis. 

_No I'm not,_ Sherlock didn't reply. He tried to think small thoughts, invisible thoughts. 

"If you wanted to be circumspect about your location, leaving your shoes outside the door was not, perhaps, the soundest strategy."

Oh. Sherlock considered this information carefully. He had taken his shoes to present the illusion of his having gone somewhere—possibly to Scotland—but since he knew how upset Nanny would be if he tracked dirt all over the clean towels and sheets, he had conscientiously set them aside before hiding. He had to concede that it wasn't his most well thought-out plan. 

"I recognize that you're upset, Sherlock, but hiding in there is not going to make the Watsons stay."

They were boring anyway. Almost as boring as stupid _Scotland_. Under the blanket, Sherlock curled up tighter, pressing his face into his knees. His stomach hurt, and his eyes felt hot. 

The door opened, and Sherlock tensed, ready to kick and scream if Mycroft attempted to pull him out. But instead, Mycroft squeezed into the cupboard with him, and tugged the door to behind him. He didn't lecture, didn't lie like Mummy and Father did and tell Sherlock that he would make new friends (and Sherlock knew that was a lie. He'd listened in on the conversations Mummy had with his teachers and with Nanny. His teachers said 'antisocial personality disorder,' and asked what specialists he had been to see. Nanny called him 'different' and 'special' instead, but he knew she meant the same thing). 

Mycroft understood, Sherlock thought, because he didn't say a word, not even when Sherlock suddenly yelled that he _hated_ John anyway, because he did, because John was stupid and slow and he didn't matter at all. He was just an experiment. Instead, he just sat and listened, and occasionally let Sherlock wipe his nose on his sleeve.

 

**1994**

Nanny had been the one to put up the Christmas tree. If she had asked, Sherlock would have told her not to bother—he found Christmas trite and grating, from the carols to the veneer of manic cheer that was a thin layer of ice over deep waters of stress and festering family rivalries. He'd felt much the same way since he had stopped believing in Father Christmas when he was four. Of course, that was undoubtedly why she hadn't bothered to ask. 

It did seem rather a waste, however: with his new government position, Mycroft would be staying in London over the holidays; Mummy and Father were in either Sacramento or Madeira, Sherlock had long since deleted their schedule as barely relevant; and the small staff that kept the house running were all with their families. In deference to Nanny, Sherlock left the lights on the tree illuminated while he curled upon the couch with a stack of books from Father's library. Of particular interest since his teacher's armchair diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder was the _Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders_. He had committed the relevant portions of the third edition to memory already, of course, but the revisions in the new _DSM-IV_ would be fascinating both for the content itself and in how they reflected the evolution of medical thought. 

He ignored the food left in the fridge for him.

 

*

 

It was after 10 when there was a sudden, loud pounding on the door. Sherlock stirred, blinking, only then realizing that he had been staring unseeing at the same paragraph for the past thirty minutes. He considered ignoring it, but no one ever knocked on the door. It was almost certainly important. It could very likely be dangerous. It would definitely be more interesting than falling asleep over a book. 

Whatever Sherlock had been expecting, it wasn't _John_ —they hadn't exchanged more than a few tense pleasantries at school, the smallest of small talk fraught with unspoken words. But any notion that this was an attempt to force a reconciliation vanished immediately at the sight of John, gone even before the thought was fully formed. John had been crying. Still was, though he was trying to hide it. It made his eyes swollen, but that wasn't a sufficient cause for—Sherlock grabbed his arms and pulled him forward without speaking, into the light of the hallway. _(Left eye purpled and swollen shut, skin was abraded over his cheekbone. Struck by someone right handed, angle suggested someone taller. Shoes untied, no coat, had run out in a hurry. No, no, no.)_ Sherlock's hands tightened on John's arms, hard enough to leave bruises of his own on John's skin. Realizing this, Sherlock let go just as quickly and stepped back, raking his hands through his hair. No coat on Christmas Eve: John had to be freezing, but it's Sherlock who shivered, iced through with cold fury. 

"Sorry—" John choked out, his chest heaving as though he had been running. "I know it's Christmas, but I didn't know where else—"

"Quiet," Sherlock interrupted. John couldn't apologize to him, not for this, not when Sherlock should have been able to see this coming. "It's fine, John." He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, then stepped past John to close the door. John didn't move, just stood there in the middle of the hallway, too quiet and withdrawn and _not John_ until Sherlock tugged him down the hall. He shoved the _DSM-IV_ off the couch, and then prowled around the room, fetching a blanket and pouring a whiskey from the cabinet. 

He wasn't particularly well-versed at offering comfort, or at emotions generally, so he was glad that John didn't need any encouragement. "It's Harry," he said, though he must have known that Sherlock had deduced as much. His voice was low and thick, and it made Sherlock's chest feel tight with anger. Wordlessly, he offered John the blanket and the whiskey: John took the blanket, but just folded it in his lap; he shook his head at the whiskey, naturally, Christ, Sherlock was a stupid, blind idiot. He downed it himself. 

"She—fuck, it's so stupid. She knew he'd been drinking; Christ, _she'd_ been drinking too, which is probably why—Not that she shouldn't have," he hastened to add, scrubbing his sleeve across his face. He shot a quick, furtive glance at Sherlock, and licked his dry lips.

 _Ah._ Sherlock could see where the story was headed now, even though John had lapsed into silence. He curled up on the end of the couch facing John, knees tucked up against his chest. He was good at being quiet, good at waiting, but what he was best at was deducing. And so, after a few more minutes of silence have elapsed, he spoke. 

"Your father had been drinking. Given the holiday, he imbibed more than was typical for one night. Your sister slipped, used the wrong pronoun, perhaps, then decided when confronted to be honest. She has a girlfriend, has had one for a while. Did he strike her first? Or did you intervene before it had progressed beyond shouting? No, obvious, of course you did." He pressed his fingers together. The next correct question would be to ask whether John's mother and sister were all right, he knew, even it was purely for the social convention alone—John wouldn't be here if they were still in any danger. Which raised the question of why he _was_ here.

"Sherlock," John interjected before Sherlock could ask. He was looking around, appearing to see the room for the first time: the tree, the stack of books, the silent house. Sherlock bit his lower lip as he saw the pieces come together in John's mind. "Are you—?" he didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to: he'd been over a few times, of course, and at most he had met Mycroft, or Nanny. John knew Sherlock's parents were never home. Apparently he had never given much thought to the implications. 

Sherlock stood up quickly, before John could say anything further—the expression on his face was more than enough. As if having absentee parents was somehow worse than an abusive, alcoholic father. "If you need a place to stay, you're more than welcome here, of course," he said quickly. "I can make up the spare room for you." 

A pause.

"Will we be needing two rooms?" John asked, his voice quiet. 

Sherlock spun around to face him, not certain he'd heard correctly (untrue: his hearing was excellent, but he questioned whether his personal desires biased his interpretation). John was looking very intently at the floor, his hands twisted in the blanket on his lap. "I was basing that assumption on previous evidence," Sherlock said, picking his words carefully.

"Evidence of me being a complete prat."

Sherlock didn't feel the need to deny the factual. "There were extenuating circumstances." 

If he said yes, they would still be friends, he knew, and better friends than they had been for the past few months, because Sherlock suspected that John would handle rejection better than he had. Of course he would; John had other people who wanted him. It would be safer to say yes, let John make a joke of it, and forget this conversation had happened. 

Caring was not an advantage: it muddled the mind, made one susceptible, weak. 

"Sherlock?"

It would take time, obviously. Best not to rush into things, not when Sherlock wasn't sure he trusted John's affection, and John wasn't entirely certain of his sexuality. Could be dangerous indeed. 

"No," he said, "We won't need it."

John's smile was a bit watery in response, but it was genuine nonetheless.

 

**1989**

Nanny and Cook were speaking about it in hushed whispers that morning, a conversation quickly cut off the moment Sherlock entered the kitchen. They ignored his enquiries, and he was forced to resort to sneaking into Father's office for that morning's paper. 

The newspaper had it all wrong, Sherlock could tell at a glance. They talked about it being a "terrible accident," and a "tragedy for the parents and the team," and mentioned the memorial to be held at the boy's school in Sussex. Nothing about a police investigation, not even a hint that anyone suspected something was wrong. 

The first police officer Sherlock got on the phone sternly told him that they were very busy, and didn't he know that this line wasn't for playing games? The second thanked him for his interest (in a condescending tone that set Sherlock's teeth on edge) and then asked if his father was home. 

Nanny heard him yelling and found him in the office, right in the middle of him telling the policeman why, precisely, he was a small-minded idiot. He was grounded for a month, and his chemistry set was confiscated for two. 

Later, Sherlock would sneak downstairs and rescue the paper from the rubbish bin. He would keep that clipping, and all the others over the rest of the week, on Carl Powers. He would remember even after everyone else forgot.

 

**1996**

"Sherlock? What's all this?"

John was busy unpacking their myriad boxes, while Sherlock was fully occupied with ensuring the couch cushions were comfortable. He had invited John to assist him in this important task, but John had ludicrous standards of cleanliness and organization. Sherlock leaned his head back over the arm of the couch and regarded John upside down. He had opened a box of books, and was flipping through— _ah_.

Sherlock twisted around on the couch to be right side up, and folded his arms on the edge of the couch. John was paging through Volume VII of his indices, letters O-P. He paused, unfolding a long newspaper article and skimming over it. "You collect stories about murders?"

"Not only murders," Sherlock admitted, "Though that does comprise the majority of the volumes so far. Interesting crimes, cases where the police have clearly missed something key. Started when I was 11."

"Ever solve any of them?" John was grinning up at him. Unlike Mycroft, who had found Sherlock's collection when Sherlock was 12, John was entirely serious. 

"Yes, actually," Sherlock reached out one languid arm to page forward through the book. "Not as many as I would like, but regrettably, the police never saw the need to share details with a civilian. Especially not an underage one."

"Their loss," John stretched up for a kiss. "Hire you as consulting busybody and general prat, and the amount of cases solved would go through the roof."

Sherlock squirmed over the arm of the sofa, knocking John onto his back on the floor to kiss him properly. "Consulting _Genius_ , thank you. But I have better things to deduce, such as... hmm. The colour of your pants, for instance. Quite a mystery, now that your laundry schedule has been interrupted by our move." He rucked up John's shirt with one hand, and slid down to nuzzle at his stomach, feeling John's ribcage hitch—ticklish as ever. "You're fortunate that I'm on the case, and my rates are quite reasonable."

"Help me, Sherlock Holmes, you're my only hope." John intoned, trying not to giggle.

"If you make a joke about lightsabers, John, I will leave."

"I love you too."

 

**2002**

There was no air in the room. Sherlock dug his fingers hard into the back of the couch to keep himself on his feet. _(Symptoms: tingling sensation in fingers and toes, headache, sense of dizziness. Diagnosis: Cerebral hypoxia. Brain being starved of oxygen; continued deprivation would result in loss of consciousness, seizures, cessation of brain stem reflexes and, ultimately, brain death.)_

"Jesus, Sherlock, just breathe—" 

Sherlock flinched away from John's hand, backing toward the window. John's voice was thick, tight, as though he too was being choked. 

"Ok, ok. I won't touch you. But can we talk about this?"

"You've decided to commit suicide; I hardly see what there is to discuss." Sherlock leaned back against the glass, the cold through his shirt shocking his brain back into focus.

John's chin jerked up slightly, his shoulders squaring. Bracing himself for a fight, which Sherlock was more than willing to give him. Better to fight and scream and _hurt_ each other, because if John tried to be compassionate now, Sherlock would hurl himself through the fucking window. He could see John warring with himself, his left hand curling and uncurling at his side before his shoulders finally relaxed.

"I can _help_ people, Sherlock. Actually help, instead of just getting some piddly locum job somewhere to treat sniffles and the flu for the next forty yea—"

"Of course," Sherlock sneered. "How could I forget your pathetic need to save people? Obviously a result of your inability to keep either your father or your sister from descending into alcoholism. Dull. Predictable. You do realize that getting blown up won't get your sister back into rehab? Quite the reverse I would think."

"And what am I supposed to do here, Sherlock?" John finally exploded. "Stay here and watch you kill yourself because you're too goddamn bored of life to _do_ something with that brain of yours? You have this gift, this amazing—do you know what I would do if I was half as smart as you are? But no, you decided that cocaine was your life's calling instead." 

Sherlock kept his hands resolutely at his sides, though his right arm felt on fire, each pockmark from his needle an ember searing into the skin. John couldn't possibly understand, not with his minuscule, ordinary mind. "Yes, I would hate for you to be saddled with another addict," Sherlock bit out. "Are you sure Afghanistan is far enough for you to get away from me?"

"It's not—" John stepped forward and reached out toward him. Sherlock stared at his hand until he let it drop back to his side. "You need to get help, Sherlock; I can't do it for you. But I don't want to _get away_ from you, Christ." He rubbed his hand over his face. "I've enlisted for one tour, that's all, and I won't be shipped out for another two months. I want to—I don't want us to break up. I lo—"

"You need to leave now," Sherlock cut across his words. He wouldn't be able to convince John to stay, not with threats or pleas. He would pay off every last pound of John's student debt if John's pride would let him, but it wouldn't make a difference. It was his bloody hero complex, his need to be the savior, the white knight. 

"Sherlock—"

He breathed in deeply, finally able to get enough air into his lungs. He felt remarkably, icily clear. "Do you honestly expect me to wait for you while you're gone? Monogamy has been boring enough with you here," he sneered. The blow hit home: shock, quickly followed by hurt, flickered across John's face. _Good_ , he thought, viciously. "Aside from the potential for a passable breakup fuck, I don't see any need for us to continue for two months. You can send Percy to collect your things."

His resolve almost, almost wavered at the look on John's face, but he turned aside quickly and snatched up his violin again to screech the bow across the strings. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched John, saw the way he looked around the flat before squaring his shoulders resolutely. He walked out without another word, without saying goodbye. 

Sherlock waited until he saw John out the window _(hands in pockets, shoulders curled forward, head down, every line of his posture radiating hurt to someone who knew him well)_ before he threw his violin aside, heedless of where it fell or what damage befell it. He sank down against the wall and tucked his knees against his chest, pressing his forehead against him. He thought of the linen cupboard, and a brother's comfort, and laughed until the sound caught in his throat like a sob.

 

**2010**

A small eternity had passed in the space of a few seconds, as the world spun under Sherlock's feet and John's eyes grew wide with shock. _(Resignation rather than relief at being in London—invalided home, rather than a completed tour. Held himself stiffly, clearly still in some pain, so the injury was quite severe. Skin more tanned than before, but the tan had faded—lengthy hospital stay? Hair lighter, sun-bleached. He had lost weight. There were lines around his eyes, and grey in his hair and, though it clearly wasn't necessary despite his halting gait, he held a cane.)_

'I thought you were dead,' Sherlock thought, but asked "Afghanistan or Iraq?" instead, once he was certain his voice wouldn't falter on the words. He knew Mike would smile smugly at this deduction, but it took no brainpower: he also knew that John sang in the shower, and that his mouth tended to taste like toothpaste and earl grey tea. He knew that John snored when he lay on his back, and was ticklish over the right-hand side of his ribcage. And he knew that it had been Afghanistan eight years ago, but he had lost track of John's postings after that first. Mycroft would have known, of course, but Sherlock had pointedly never asked. If he had known where John was, he would have scoured each newspaper for news, learned every horrifying detail, and still would not have known _how_ John was. It would have been intolerable. 

John's hand tightened on his cane, and he looked quickly at Mike. It was a rather typical reaction, and Mike simply nodded and looked even more pleased with himself. "Told you about him, didn't I? What was it, Sherlock? His shoes, or his hands?"

"Stance, haircut, tan lines," Sherlock replied automatically, feeling numb. John. _John_.

"That's—spot-on, actually. Afghanistan." John stepped forward, moving his cane to his left hand so that he could offer his right to shake. "John Watson. It's good to meet you."

Mike was watching them keenly, so Sherlock did not permit himself to betray any reaction at the formality of John's introduction. He smiled, tightly, and took John's proffered hand. "Sherlock Holmes." He counted seconds to ensure he didn't hold onto John's hand for too long _(skin rougher, slightly dry, new callouses gained from handling a weapon as well as a scalpel)_ , and then turned to Mike.

It was a simple enough ploy, to secure John's phone. Mike always forgot his in his coat, and John had always been willing to help, even someone who was all but a perfect stranger now. 'If brother has green ladder, arrest brother - SH' he typed out, and sent it to both Lestrade and himself. 

"I'll leave you to your tour, Mike," he said, handing back John's phone. "Dr. Watson," he nodded to John, and turned away. 

Once outside, he checked his phone for his text from John's number. He stepped back out of the flow of pedestrian traffic and leaned against the wall, as he typed out a simple text—his address, and a time. It should give him enough time to resolve this case for Lestrade. 

 

*

 

On balance, it had been a successful evening. Keith Downing had been arrested with minimal difficulty (Sherlock's black eye notwithstanding), and Jane Downing had been alerted to her brother-in-law's role in her husband's death. 

Still no response from John.

Sherlock sprawled across his threadbare couch, eyeing the distance to the kitchen and the kettle there. Entirely too much effort. He had planned to have tea, possibly to eat something now that the case was done, but had instead attempted to read some of John's letters to him. He hadn't made it further than the first year's worth before giving up: he did not much want to find the precise date that John stopped loving him, a point which he knew must have come some time before the letters had stopped. 

Sherlock's head ached abominably, and he crossed one arm over his eyes to block out the dim yellow light from the bare bulb overhead—the light switch was too far away. A sudden knock at the door only exacerbated it, and he hurled a cushion peevishly in its direction before flopping back again. Lestrade, undoubtedly. He did prattle on about getting an official statement, no matter how often Sherlock ignored him. It was too much to hope the man would summon the meagre intelligence to realize he should save himself the trouble and write Sherlock's statements for him.

The knock came again, and Sherlock groaned in frustration. "Go away," he snapped, without getting up. 

"You're the one who invited me," John said, opening the door. He hesitated on the threshold despite his words, as though uncertain of his welcome. Sherlock dropped the book he'd been hefting as the next missile to send Lestrade on his way.

"I, ah. Ordered some extra food. Figured since you haven't put on a single pound in eight years that you still had trouble remembering to eat."

He was lying, Sherlock realized. It made him feel giddy: John was making excuses to see him, John's tells hadn't changed. He still _knew_ John in some ways. He leapt to his feet, quickly trying to clear away some of the detritus from the table. The flat was a wreck at the best of times—the entire building was—but now there were letters strewn across the tiny table, crumpled and creased, and stacks of newspaper clippings and evidence on the floor. "No, I don't tend to eat when on a case. It distracts from thinking too much."

"You know, your digestive system doesn't actually have any bearing on—" John started as he walked into the flat, then stopped at the sight of the letters Sherlock was clearing away. "Oh. You did get them, then. I had wondered."

"Yes," there wasn't all that much more he could say on the subject, but John was clutching his cane so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Sherlock folded the letters carefully and returned them to their box. "Mycroft ensured it. He did so enjoy reminding me that you were gone; I can't imagine what he'll do now."

"I asked him to make sure they reached you," John corrected, quietly. "In case you moved, or...." he stopped, but Sherlock caught the way his eyes flickered to his arms, where Sherlock had rolled up his sleeves. 

"If I was in rehab," he finished. Damn, he would owe Mycroft an apology. Not that he would, in point of fact, apologize, but it would continue to hang between them. Never mind; John was here now, and that was what was important, though whether he would stay remained to be determined. "Of course."

John was still standing uncertainly in the middle of the room, taking in its sad, shabby state. Sherlock quickly waved him toward the couch (far more comfortable than the kitchen chairs), and turned to fetch the two remaining chipped plates from his cupboard, the only ones that had yet to fall victim to his temper or experiments. John set out the carry out containers and plastic utensils—fortunate, as he couldn't vouch for the safety of his own—on the low table, and for a moment Sherlock was brought up short at the sight of him here, in this flat. It made him think of their first home together, of having sex on the floor because they couldn't go one more moment without touching each other. 

Sherlock quickly fastened the remaining buttons on his shirt (nothing to be done about the blood now), and pushed one hand through his hair in an attempt to make it somewhat more presentable. As he bent to set the plates on the table, John shifted on the couch, and reached up to catch Sherlock's chin in one hand. Sherlock stilled, but didn't tense as John tilted his face back to the meagre light. 

"Have you done anything to take care of this eye?"

Sherlock smiled. Ever the doctor. "Nothing like ice in the freezer, I'm afraid. I felt using the toes would be more than typically morbid, even for me."

"Toes—?" John started to ask, then shook his head with a tiny smile. "Haven't changed a bit have you, you daft bugger."

No, no, _no_ , that wasn't true at all. It was vitally important that John understand that. Sherlock sat next to him on the couch, careful not to dislodge John's hand from his skin. "John," he started, then stopped, eyes flicking over John's face, searching for some clue as to how this would be received. Nothing that he could find, nothing but the concern which John showed to friends and strangers alike. "There's a rather nice flat I've been—landlady owes me a favour; her husband was accused of murder in Florida, and I was able to be of assistance—" John looks puzzled, and Sherlock thinks _Consulting Busybody, John, you must remember, it was your idea_ , but of course John wouldn't know and Mike wouldn't have explained. Perhaps he ought to now, but no, he had to get this out. "And I—I'm clean, John. I have been for just over four years now. If you, ah—" _wanted to come home,_ he wanted to finish, but his throat had gone dry.

"Sherlock," John said, which... was not the enthusiastic answer Sherlock had, however naively, hoped for. When he tried to pull back, John's hand moved from his cheek to cup the back of his head, holding him still. "I'm angry at you, Sherlock," he confessed, though his tone was sad instead. "Eight bloody years without a word? I didn't know if you were dead in a ditch somewhere, shot up with God-knows-what."

"You _left,_ John. You were the only family I had, the only friend, and you _left_." Sherlock didn't recognize the sound of his own voice, nor could he recall when he'd moved his hands to grip John's forearms so tightly. He flexed his fingers against the hideously bland cable knit, and started to chuckle. It was a thin, almost manic sound, but he couldn't stop. "This is why I couldn't picture you in Afghanistan," he choked out between giggles, "what would you possibly have worn when jumpers weren't an option?" He was barely able to finish the sentence before John kissed him. 

It was gorgeously, almost painfully familiar, the easy way Sherlock sank back onto the couch under John's gentle weight, the way their bodies fit together. Sherlock's mouth parted under John's, and—oh, he did still taste like tea, that much he had remembered, but Sherlock had forgotten the way his skin and cologne smelled, the gentle pressure of his hands. 

It ended too quickly. John turned his head to the side, breaking the kiss, and breathed out harshly. "Sorry. I—sorry." He sat back quickly, colour high on his cheeks, and attempted to straighten his jumper from where Sherlock's hands had pushed at it. "I didn't mean to—"

"No need to apologize," Sherlock replied, still sprawled over the couch. He stared up at the water stains on the ceiling, and tried to remember how to breathe. He would be fine. He had been fine for eight years, and if John didn't want him any longer _(no girlfriend or boyfriend in London, clearly, at least not one serious enough for him to stay with, but that did not preclude the possibility that there had been someone else in Afghanistan. John might simply be waiting for him or her to finish a tour)_ —he started when John's hand settled on his thigh, and pushed himself up on one elbow. 

John smiled. "Just wanted to make sure you weren't retreating too far into that genius mind of yours. I'm not leaving, Sherlock, not until you've had something to eat, at least. I just... we should take this a bit more slowly. Eight years is a long time."

"Always the sensible one," Sherlock said with a thin smile, but sat up as John spooned curry and rice from the styrofoam containers onto their plates. 

He sat closer to John on the couch than he strictly needed to, so that their thighs were pressed together, and their shoulders bumped on occasion. John knew—of course John knew—but he simply smiled and pushed back against him. It was almost better than a murder, Sherlock thought.

At least, he thought until he saw flashing blue lights on his wall from the street downstairs, and leapt to his feet to look out the tiny window. 

"Sherlock?" John called from behind him, but Sherlock's mind as already racing ahead. 

"Have you followed those serial suicides at all in the papers, John?" he asked, trying to contain his excitement. "There's just been a fourth."

 

*

 

Whatever the cabbie had dosed him with, it had been effective. Splayed across the backseat like a marionette with his strings cut, Sherlock watched the blur of lights out the window, pools of yellow street lamps and occasional bursts of colour from the Christmas lights, no less garish on the street than they had been in the morgue. 

His head spun when he was hauled from the cab, the world smearing into an Impressionist painting of snow and sky and light. Movement, and the echo of footsteps in a large, empty building. The sudden harsh illumination and hum of fluorescents. Sherlock blinked and looked around, trying to focus. _Wooden chair. Table between himself and the cab driver. Gun. Two bottles, each with a pill in it, one in front of each of them. Conclusion. Conclusion...._

The drone of the cabbie's voice resolved into words. "...and whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then together... we take our medicine. I won't cheat. It's your choice: I'll take whatever pill you don't."

Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear it. It didn't make any sense. He had expected something more than this, something clever. "It's chance," he said, bracing his hands against the table, hoping that its solidity would stop the room from spinning. "Fifty-fifty chance."

The cabbie's smile twisted. "You're not playing the numbers; you're playing me. Now, did I give you the good pill, or the bad pill? Is it a bluff... or a double bluff? Or a triple bluff?"

_Oh._

"So, it is down to you, and it is down to me," he breathed. Of course. Obvious. 

"Stop stalling, Mr. Holmes, and play the game."

Sherlock smiled, carefully leaning back in his chair. The room wavered, then steadied. "But there is no game to play," he said, the pieces aligning suddenly. "It isn't a battle of wits, and it isn't luck, and it isn't _chance_. Why would you risk it? Obvious this has something to do with your children—you keep a picture of them in your cab, but it's an old photo. You don't see them often, but you love them, so it hurts. You don't have long to live, clearly, and since you've decided to go on a murder spree for your last months, the murders must be benefiting them somehow." He held up a hand, forestalling any interjection, "The means are unimportant. If they're being benefitted, you wouldn't risk any of these murders going wrong, ergo you wouldn't leave it to chance. Logically, I can't choose either pill."

Entirely unperturbed, the cabbie picked the gun up off the table instead. "It's all the same to me, Mr. Holmes. Either you take one of the pills, or I shoot you in the head. Of course, now that you've worked it out, the pills seem a bit boring, don't they?" he cocked the hammer on the gun. "So let's make this simple."

Sherlock flinched at the gunshot.

 

*

 

After the scene was cleared and Sherlock was released by the paramedics (hideous blanket firmly tucked around his shoulders), Lestrade drove him home. For once, Sherlock didn't complain about riding in a police car—undoubtedly the reason Lestrade asked him four separate times if he was all right. 

He was fine. John had told Angelo that he wasn't his date, and hadn't arrived on the scene with the police, but he was fine. It was the typical crash after a case, exacerbated by what little remained of thedrugs in his system: he simply needed to sleep it off. There would be another case soon enough, one where Donovan would be smugly unsurprised to see him show up alone.

"You're sure you're all right?" Lestrade leaned over to ask. "Need me to come up for a bit, make sure you don't bash your brains out falling and hitting your head?"

Sherlock slammed the door on him.

When he got upstairs, he found John sitting on his couch, tapping away at his laptop. Sherlock closed the door behind him and leaned back heavily against it. He would have liked to be able to attribute the response to intoxication. 

John looked up at him and smiled, licking his lips as he set it aside. Nervous tick, rather than invitation, he assumed. "So, did everything turn out then? You caught him—the, ah, cab driver, was it?"

"He fell victim to one of the classic blunders," Sherlock agreed, pushing himself off the door and walking over to John. "So to speak."

"Got into a land war in Asia?" John rose to meet him.

"I rather think that's your weakness."

John chuckled. "And you thought popular culture was useless. Sit down; I'll put the kettle on for you."

Sherlock stretched out on the couch and watched as John walked into the kitchen. He wasn't limping now; the cane was leaning by the door; and his hands, when he reached up to fish two mugs out of Sherlock's cupboards, were entirely steady, the tremor he'd had at Bart's vanished. Sherlock felt a warm tug under his sternum. 

"Of course, you didn't need me to tell you how it turned out, did you." It was not a question. The distance and accuracy of the shot through two windows would have been impressive enough with a rifle, but all the more so with a handgun. _(Sig Sauer, standard military issue, if he wasn't mistaken.)_ He hadn't known that John was such a marksman.

"I'm sorry?" John said, glancing over his shoulder, his expression one of perfect, studied innocence. 

Sherlock grinned at him, and tucked his legs in closer as John brought the mugs of tea back into the living room. "Good shot," he said, taking his mug. "I don't imagine you'd be a suspect, but I hope you got the powder burns out of your fingers. Didn't leave any traces at the scene, did you?"

John clearly weighed his response for a moment, deciding whether or not to be honest, before shaking his head minutely. 

Sherlock relaxed. While Lestrade might have consulted him to find the shooter, there was always the outside chance that Anderson would not be entirely inept if he found a hair or some fingerprints. "Good. That's... good. And you're all right?"

John paused, his tea halfway to his lips. "Hmm? Yeah, of course I am."

"Well, you have just killed a man."

John licked his lips and set his mug down. "Yes, I... that's true. But I don't have a lot of compassion for serial killers who are about to off my idiot boyfriend, as it turns out."

"He was, frankly, a bloody awful cabbie, too," Sherlock agreed, sliding closer on the couch as John chuckled. "You called me your boyfriend."

"I also called you an idiot," John said—which wasn't, Sherlock noticed, a denial. 

"Yes, well, your opinions are clearly suspect. You could be in shock, as far as I know," Sherlock put his hand on John's wrist to stop him from picking up his tea again and, encouraged by John's words and the openness his body language, moved to straddle his lap. "Pity you didn't stay at the crime scene—they would have given you a blanket."

John cupped his hips, thumbs stroking slow circles over his hipbones. "Still an idiot, though. You didn't tell me what you were planning, or call for any backup. If you didn't have GPS on your phone and Big Brother as a sibling, I might not have found you in time."

Christ, bloody Mycroft again. Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted in irritation, but John tightened his hands on his hips to keep him still. 

"Whatever Donovan, or... or bloody Anderson might say, they're wrong. You're not a freak, and you're not a psychopath." Sherlock tried to look away, but John angled his head to catch his eyes again. "Hey. I mean it, Sherlock. What you are is _mine_ , all right?"

Ah. That caused an unexpected flare of heat under his skin, and Sherlock braced one hand on the back of the couch to lean in closer to John. John, who looked surprised and a bit embarrassed at himself, but who didn't look away. "Say that again," Sherlock breathed. 

John's answering smile was a triple homicide, a locked-room mystery, a mathematical equation; it was Sarasate, and even as his perfect, brilliant mouth began to form the word _mine_ again, Sherlock dove in to taste the shape and sound and feel of it. He kissed John until he was drunk with it, lightheaded, and then kept kissing him. He wanted to be breathed in, be pulled into John and transmuted _C 6H12O6+6O2 —> 6CO2+6H2O_, every molecule of himself changed by the brilliant chemical processes that made up _John_. Whatever would he have been without him?

John drew back slightly, and stroked his thumb over Sherlock's temple. "I can almost taste your brain working."

 _(Tone light, shape of vowels altered by force of smile, signs of arousal still—unh—quite evident. Teasing. Ignore temporarily.)_ Sherlock pressed his mouth to John's again in passing, just enough to assure that the message had been received, and would be processed according to its relative importance (low). He rubbed his cheek against John's _(rough, stubbled. Would leave red marks on Sherlock's skin unless he shaved. Note: imperative not to let John shave for minimum ~~eight~~ ~~ten~~ twelve hours, until sufficiently marked)_ , and the nosed up his jaw to his hairline _(further back than before, shorter than before Afghanistan, enduring military influence, likely to continue. Streak of grey. Taste. Texture not noticeably different under tongue. John's squirming distracting from experiment. Note: repeat at later point. Scent, altered. Used to use Sherlock's expensive shampoo, now something generic, cost-efficient. Result of military pension)_. He could feel John's chest hitching against his own, and realized that he was laughing softly, and contorted himself downward to press his mouth lightly to his throat, feeling the vibrations of it buzz pleasantly against his lips. John didn't move apart from the slow, consistent motions of his hand rubbing the small of Sherlock's back. He let Sherlock explore and deduce; he _understood_.

_Tightness in chest. Constriction of throat. Involuntary tightening of hands in jumper. Panic._

"John," Sherlock said, mouth still pressed to John's neck, back hunched awkwardly, "I would hate to have to arrange morally acceptable murders on a biweekly basis. Sally would start to be... well, even more suspicious than she is now." 

It took him a moment to understand. One hand touched Sherlock's cheek, then moved down to his neck _(caress, offering comfort, but also taking pulse. Concerned.)_.

"This isn't—" John stopped, breathed in deeply. Upset? Emotional, certainly, but his hand remained relaxed against Sherlock's skin. "All you have to do is ask, Sherlock, really, you—" the same disconcerting breathing pattern. Sherlock moved to rest his forehead against John's shoulder. "Please ask."

He hadn't asked, eight years ago. Evidence suggested at the time that it would not have made a difference. No, untrue. He hadn't wanted to ask, eight years ago, because he shouldn't have _had_ to—no, wrong. Edit. Because he had been afraid John would say no, and leave regardless. 

"Stay."

Once the word was out, he felt lighter, but it was a trembling and hollow sensation. He kept his face in John's shoulder, trying to analyze the fibre blend by its texture against his cheek, and curled his fingers against John's chest. Steady heartbeat: solid, dependable, grounding. "I want to come home, John." Home was under his hand, had been out of reach for too long. 

John surged up against him, hands pushing and pulling at Sherlock until their bodies aligned properly and their mouths crashed together again. "Yes," he breathed between kisses; "Yes," he laughed as Sherlock squirmed back off his lap to stand, bent awkwardly to keep their mouths together until he could pull John to his feet; and _"Yes,"_ he groaned as they stumbled back to the lumpy mattress in the far corner of the room. They shed their clothing on the way, a fumble of hands and bodies uncoordinated in their actions after too long a separation. Eagerness made their feet stumble and trod on each other, caught arms awkwardly in jumpers and jackets. John started to giggle again, and Sherlock pushed him down on his sad excuse for a bed and just _looked_ at him. 

"I'm just a pin-up waiting to happen, aren't I?" John teased, stripped down to his pants and, bizarrely, his left sock. He pouted his lips and arched his back in an exaggerated parody, but Sherlock was mapping the new contours of John caused by training, illness, pain, the web of scars shiny on his skin, some pale and faded, others _(shoulder, wound that had sent him home, sniper)_ still livid pink.

"Yes." His pants felt unbearably tight.

"What are you waiting for, then?"

Sherlock let himself be pulled down onto the bed by John's smile, John's eyes, let himself be tangled up in John's arms. He immediately pressed his mouth to John's shoulder, tasting the contours of the scar. John groaned under him and arched up again, no parody in the movement this time. The pressure of John's erection against his own was good, _God,_ was it good, even better when John wrapped one leg around his hip and pulled him closer. The drag of fabric between them was maddening. Sherlock blindly sought John's mouth, panting into the kiss, and tried to work one hand down between them. He wanted more, wanted _skin_. He tugged at John's pants, trying to work them down far enough to free John's cock without permitting so much as an ȧngström of space between them. 

John rocked up against him with a low moan, and Sherlock hummed against his neck in response, drumming his fingers on John's side as they twisted and pressed together, _Tempo comodo, allegro, presto, John John John—!_

Too much, overwhelming, _fortissimo possibile_. Sherlock wrenched away before he climaxed, his skin immediately prickling with cold from where he had been touching John. He squirmed out of his pants, then rolled over onto his stomach to rummage in the stack of papers next to the bed, looking for lube, lube, lube, _fuck_. He couldn't find— _oh_. 

He dropped his head against his forearms. "I did have some lubricant. Necessary, for a case. Details unimportant—nothing sexual. It was required for an experiment. Fuck," he finished, with feeling. 

The mattress dipped as John shifted, and Sherlock felt the warm press of skin against his back, warmer lips against his nape. "It's all fine, Sherlock. This is more than good." He shifted his hips for emphasis, the blunt head of his cock nudging along the crease of Sherlock's arse. 

"I'd rather have you in me," Sherlock complained, but it was half-hearted as John nosed behind his ear, and reached around to wrap one hand _(warm, damp. Saliva? Uh—unimportant)_ around Sherlock's prick and stroked slowly. 

"Plenty of time for that. Ah—all the time in the world." 

Sherlock had to bite the side of his hand to muffle a desperate sound at the break in John's voice, as John began to fuck against his cleft in earnest. The walls were paper-thin, after all—Sherlock didn't care if he woke anyone, but he didn't want to share anything of John, not even the sound of their mingled groans. "John, _John,_ " he bit out into his skin, John panting encouragement into every silence, _Like that,. there, come on—_

His joints came unhinged as his brain rebooted. 

When all systems were back online, John was slumped against his back, breathing harshly, and Sherlock was warm and happy and rather sticky. He tried to say John's name, but it came out more as a slur of consonants. John understood regardless, and rolled off of him onto his back. 

Immediately, Sherlock turned over (despite his body's very plain intentions to sink through the mattress bonelessly, if at all possible), and wrapped around John, arms encircling him, fingers in his hair, legs tangled through his. He wanted to hold on with everything he had, cling so tightly that John's every movement would become his, that soon neither of them would remember when they had been separate entities.

Irrational.

Necessary.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking," he said into John's hair, "and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. I keep body parts in the fridge, and I'll not clean up a single mess, nor buy milk, even if I've experimented on the bit you were saving for your tea." He breathed in deeply. Partners should know the worst about each other from the start, shouldn't they? "But I'll love you, John. Even when I'm not speaking, or am having a sulk on the couch, or when I boil stomach acid in your favourite mug, I will.

"The address is 221B Baker Street. Come with me to see it tomorrow?"

John's lips brushed Sherlock's clavicle as he spoke, and Sherlock felt the words as much as heard them. "I have screaming nightmares and keep a gun in my desk. My temper is... bad, to put it mildly, and if— _when_ you boil stomach acid in my mug, you'll bloody well find that out. Sometimes I see things that aren't there, but I will always see you." He pressed his forehead harder against Sherlock's chest; though Sherlock couldn't see his expression, he knew John would be smiling. "Yes. Yes, God, yes."

 

**2011**

"Sherlock? Sherlock, did you move the bloody kettle again?"

The comment was more than typically moronic for John, so Sherlock ignored it. He finished his shower, dried off, and then walked back into the living room, careful to pick his way around various overflowing boxes. "I hope you didn't touch my chemistry equipment," he said mildly, wrapping his robe more tightly around himself. "I have an important experiment in progress."

"An experiment on how much of the table you can overtake before you bin the—" John started, then stopped, frowning at Sherlock. "You had a shower."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Unpacking had made John moronic.

"We haven't unpacked the towels, so—" John's eyes zeroed in on the now quite wet jumper in Sherlock's hand. 

"You weren't wearing it!"

"I took it off to _unpack_ , which, of course, you've been no help with. I planned to wear it again to fetch us some groceries, since some of us can't exist on air and our own sense of smug self-importance." 

His face was a bit red. Sherlock wondered if it were anger, or simply exertion. Too much lugging around of heavy books—really, with his bad shoulder, John should know better. 

"...n't even found where you put the rest of my jumpers."

In the bin, if he got half the chance. "Says the man who unpacked the Christmas decorations first."

"It's festi—"

"On January third."

John's irritation retreated quickly from his expression, as though ashamed to be caught out in the open. "Well. It." He cleared his throat and turned back to the box marked "kitchen" that he was unpacking. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. John didn't back down. John certainly didn't back down when he had the moral high ground. When he had the moral high ground, he was even less likely to back down when he knew Sherlock was raising irrelevant details in order to distract him.

"John."

"I just. Thought it would be nice to spend the holiday with you, all right? And since you spent most of Christmas getting shot at by cabbies who killed via 80s pop-culture references—"

It was too much. Sherlock swooped in, turning John quickly in his arms. Heedless of the box of dishes clattering into the sink _(two glasses broken, one mug chipped, from the sound of it)_ he kissed John deeply, pressing into him with his whole body. 

"Happy Christmas, John," he murmured against John's mouth, as they broke apart. 

John's eyes went soft and bright, his mouth working for a moment before twisting into a sly smile. "Not enough of an apology for my jumper, you twat," he noted, sliding his hands under Sherlock's robe. "But we do have a lovely bare stretch of floor...."

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> Cafes at Saint Bart’s: http://www.bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk/assets/docs/For-patients--Visitors/137-Ward-5b-Rahere.pdf
> 
> There is indeed a nurse’s station in 5b (http://www.bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk/our-services/gynaecological-cancer-centre/for-patients/staying-with-us/). I can’t comment on whether or not they have excellent coffee, but if there was ever a group who needed it…. 
> 
> The study Sherlock references obliquely is Gallese, V.; Fadiga, L.; Fogassi, L.; Rizzolatti, Giacomo (1996). "Action recognition in the premotor cortex". Brain 119 (2): 593–609. doi:10.1093/brain/119.2.593. PMID 8800951. Some date changing during editing made the study anachronistic, but let's just roll with it. 
> 
> Mouse in a teapot inspired by a truly revolting article about a mouse problem at a rather large Canadian institution. An employee found a dead mouse in his tea kettle after noticing that his tea "tasted a bit fuzzy."
> 
> The arrest of Keith Downing is an elaboration of “The Case of the Green Ladder,” as written on Sherlock’s website http://www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk/casefiles/thegreenladder


End file.
